Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (29 page)

“I don’t understand, sir,” Barnes said. “What’s this drinking chocolate got to do with footsteps in the night?” According to Mrs. Jeffries’ theory, the drinking chocolate should have been found in the late cook’s room.

“The killer must have realized we were close and used this passageway to move about the house and try to hide the evidence.” He was seeing the sequence of events in his mind’s eye as he spoke and he was sure he was on the right path. “Don’t you see, this cocoa was meant for Olive Kettering. The cook switched it and kept it for herself because she was angry at her mistress. The cook then died. I think that drinking chocolate contains poison, and the killer, thinking we’d be back for another look at the house, decided not to take any chances. He or she snatched the tin out of the cook’s room and hid it up here until they could dispose of it.”

“Why didn’t they just chuck it in the river?” Barnes muttered.

“Perhaps the murderer didn’t have the chance; there have been a fair number of people about the place.” The inspector jerked his chin to his left, where the staircase wound back on itself to climb to the next floor. “Let’s see if we can find where in the house this staircase leads.”

It took them over an hour to find three entrances to the main house. One was in a bedroom on the third floor, one was in the hallway outside Olive Kettering’s quarters on the second level, and one was all the way up on the fourth-floor landing.

“It looks like an old servants’ staircase that’s been built over,” Barnes commented as they came out onto the landing. Mrs. McAllister, two of the maids who had been cleaning the bedrooms, and a constable stood in front of them, their eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh, my Lord, Inspector,” Mrs. McAllister exclaimed. “You frightened us so badly I sent Susan to fetch a constable. You should have said what you were going to be doing. The entire household is in an uproar. We kept hearing footsteps and horrible noises. What on earth is going on?”

“I do apologize,” Witherspoon said. “But we were just searching the house. I believe we’ve found the reason you’ve been hearing footsteps at night.”

“What’s taking them so long?” Mrs. Goodge complained. “I think those boys of ours are just larkin’ about.”

Betsy, Mrs. Jeffries, and the cook were at the kitchen table having a very late midday meal. They hadn’t seen nor heard from anyone since Wiggins had reappeared with his startling news.

“Perhaps nothing is happening and they are just keeping watch,” the housekeeper suggested.

“Can you pass me the stew, please?” Betsy asked.

“You’re a hungry girl today, aren’t you?” The cook pushed the platter across the table. “Do you want more bread?”

“Um, yes, please.” She pushed her bread plate toward the cook with one hand while picking up the serving spoon and ladling out another helping of meat and vegetables with the other. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Goodge. You’re the best cook in the world.”

Mrs. Goodge chuckled. “Thank you kindly. You’re in a good mood today.” She glanced at the housekeeper, her expression inquiring.

“I feel wonderful,” Betsy said. “But I think that if you’re right and those boys of ours are larking about, then Mrs. Jeffries should tell us what she suspects.”

“Agreed.” Mrs. Goodge nodded and looked at the housekeeper. “Just tell us what you think. If you’re wrong, we’ll not hold it against you.”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed. Her own spirits were high, so what harm could it do? After all, soon, if all went well, she’d be a grandmother . . . well, not officially a grandmother, but certainly one in spirit. “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think
might
be happening but I’m not completely sure who the killer actually is. It could be one of two people. But I do know this: If my assumption is correct, Olive Kettering wasn’t losing her mind. There was someone in the house many nights walking about. Furthermore, I suspect that person did it deliberately and over a long period of time for their own purposes. They wanted everyone to think that Olive Kettering was out of her mind.”

“But why would someone do such an awful thing?” Betsy asked. “Just to be cruel?”

“I think the killer has been planning this murder for a long time and I think that person hated the victim, so, yes, cruelty was definitely part of the scheme. But I imagine the bigger part was laying the groundwork to challenge her will in court.” Mrs. Jeffries pushed her empty plate to one side.

“Of course!” Mrs. Goodge helped herself to another slice of bread. “We should have thought of that all along—it’s as obvious as the nose on your face. If the heirs don’t like what she’s done with the estate, whoever killed her can now produce half a dozen witnesses claimin’ she wasn’t of sound mind.”

“So you’re sure that whoever killed her is also the person who’s been walking about and tormenting her?” Betsy asked. “And how did they get in the house?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “They had a key, and, no, I’m not absolutely certain that the two things are connected. But I think it’s more than likely.”

“But even if they had a key to get in the house,” Mrs. Goodge said, reaching for the butter pot, “why didn’t any of the servants see or hear them? Miss Kettering was always waking people up in the night.”

“If I’m right, they were never spotted because that house is riddled with secret passages.”

 

“We need to go to the carriage house,” Witherspoon said to Barnes as they came down the staircase to the main floor. Mrs. McAllister walked behind them. Once her initial shock at seeing the wall open had worn off, she and the other servants seemed to be more relieved than alarmed at this new turn of events. She’d identified the fabric they’d found snagged on the nail.

“Definitely, sir, a word with Mrs. Fox is in order,” Barnes said. He carried the cloak and the tin of drinking chocolate. Witherspoon had the gun. Barnes was a bit nervous about the inspector keeping a loaded weapon in his coat pocket, but he’d assured the constable that he’d move carefully and that having it at hand might be useful in solving this murder.

“Mrs. Fox is in the drawing room,” Mrs. McAllister said. “She wants the black crepe taken down today.”

Witherspoon raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s rather unusual. I thought mourning black was kept up for at least a year.”

“Yes, I rather thought so as well.” Mrs. McAllister sniffed disapprovingly. “But she informed me that it was a silly and old-fashioned custom. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got to speak to the cook and then get back upstairs and supervise the new girls. We’ve some additional help from an agency and the whole place is to have a good clean. As I said, you’ll find Mrs. Fox in the drawing room.”

With that, she turned and disappeared down the corridor. The two policemen made their way to the drawing room. As Barnes’ hands were full, Witherspoon opened the double doors and went inside first.

Mrs. Fox wasn’t the only person present; Dorian Kettering was there as well. He was on a chair by the fireplace and she was across the room by the window, fussing with the curtains. A lamp identical to the one they’d used to search the passage was on a table next to her.

She whirled about and glared at them. “What do you want?”

“I’m glad you’re both here,” Witherspoon said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

As they’d agreed, Barnes stayed behind the inspector with the cloak tightly bundled against his chest. He sniffed, trying to place what that odd smell in the air might be. Paraffin. Yes, that was it. He must have gotten some of the oil on his hands from the lamp when they were searching the passageway.

“Were the locks on this house changed when Miss Kettering bought the place?” Witherspoon asked.

“Of course they were,” Bernadine Fox replied. She turned back to the heavy curtains and began picking specks of lint off the fabric.

“No, they weren’t.” Dorian Kettering frowned at her. “You know that as well as I do. You told me yourself last spring that you’d gone down to your family home to get a spare key to the carriage house.”

“The gardener also confirmed the locks weren’t changed.” Witherspoon looked at Mrs. Fox. “Your family had the keys to the house, didn’t they?”

She shrugged and glanced at Dorian. “I suppose. What of it?”

“You lived here as a child, didn’t you?”

She turned and gave him her full attention. “Yes. I did.”

“And you played in the secret passages, didn’t you? You knew about them and you knew how to move from room to room without being caught.”

“This should have been my house, not hers.” A subtle change had come over her face and she no longer looked angry. A strange, faraway look came into her eyes.

Dorian Kettering, his expression confused, got to his feet. “Bernadine, what on earth are you saying? You must be careful, my dear—”

“Shut up,” she interrupted. “You weren’t man enough to defend me when I was a girl and I certainly don’t need your help now.”

Stunned, his mouth gaped open and he stumbled backward into his seat.

Witherspoon took the gun out of his pocket and held it up for her to see. “Do you recognize this weapon?”

“Of course I do; it belonged to my late husband. He used it to shoot vermin.” She cocked her head to one side and gave Witherspoon a coquettish smile. “And so did I. This should have been mine, you see.” She gestured widely, indicating the whole house. “But Dorian didn’t love me enough to marry me when I was young so I was stuck marrying poor old Henry. He was a decent enough husband and he did his best to make me happy. But of course he couldn’t. The only thing I ever really wanted was this house. It was supposed to be mine, you see. Grandpapa promised it to me. We used to play together in passageways where no one could see us. He said I could have the house. It’s all I ever wanted. But then they came and took him away and said I had to leave so I was sent to live with Cousin Jeremiah.”

“Oh, my God,” Dorian whispered. His eyes filled with tears.

“You always were a big crybaby,” she taunted. “If you had married me when I asked you to, I wouldn’t have been forced to leave. We would have had the house. But no, you weren’t man enough to do your duty. You wanted to go off to Scotland.”

“Bernadine,” he pleaded softly, “we were only children. I was sixteen and you were fifteen. Even if I’d married you, you would have still lost this house. It had to be sold to pay the debts. Your family hadn’t any money.”

“But yours did,” she charged. “And that toff-nosed cousin of yours would have given you anything you wanted if you’d been nicer to her. Now look what you’ve made me go and do.”

“What have you done, Mrs. Fox?” Witherspoon asked softly. The expression on her face made his blood run cold. He wished he’d brought in half a dozen constables before he started asking questions. Bernadine Fox was insane.

She turned and smiled at him again. “Oh, Inspector, I think we both know the answer to that. Why doesn’t your constable step out where I can see him? Is he hiding? Olive tried to hide that day, but I banged on the wall next to her bedroom and that sent her scrambling out.”

Witherspoon signaled for Barnes to move and he stepped out into plain view.

“I see you’ve got the cloak.” She laughed. “Olive left it in a pile of clothes she was going to give to the Society of the Humble. She enjoyed giving them her castoffs. I stole it. It was quite useful when I needed to come over late at night, and if anyone had seen me, they’d all think it was that cow Olga Richards who was tormenting poor Olive,” she said conversationally. “She can walk, you know. I saw her skulking about one day when the good reverend and Olive were strolling on Brook Green having one of their interminable and boring chats about the hereafter. She was following them. I think she did that quite often.” She sighed and reached into the pocket of her skirt.

Dorian got up and started toward her. “Bernadine, you’re ill. Please let me help you.”

Witherspoon and Barnes both moved at the same time, but her next words stopped them in their tracks.

“Don’t be a fool, Dorian, they’re going to hang me. I’ve killed two people. Well, three if you count Henry, but all I did to him was hold a pillow over his face when he complained he couldn’t sleep.” She chuckled. “He slept quite well after that and, even better, I didn’t have to listen to any more of his incessant whining.”

Dorian stared at her, a look of horrified disbelief on his face.

“Who else have you killed?” Witherspoon asked casually. He wanted to hear the rest of what she had to say before they took her to the station. If she decided not to repeat her story, at least by hearing her out now, they had witnesses to what she’d confessed.

She gave him a pitying look. “Don’t be coy, Inspector. I think you know who I’m talking about. But I’m not sure that death is really my fault—it was Olive’s doing. The cook would never have switched that lovely cocoa I got from Holland if Olive hadn’t been so nasty to her. Poor Mrs. Grant, I guess it was just her bad luck that the chocolate she stole was poisoned. It’s very easy to get one’s hands on arsenic,” she said earnestly, her gaze focused on Witherspoon. “The police ought to do something about that.”